


Quiet and Gentle as a Secret

by CheapPinkMints97



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Worms, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode 159, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period, softer than regular canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23885446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapPinkMints97/pseuds/CheapPinkMints97
Summary: Jon and Martin hole up in Daisy's safe-house, figure out how to be people again, and learn that their love is reciprocated.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 17
Kudos: 147





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just really - really love the idea of Daisy showing up to the safe-house like 'tf are you doing here?'  
> I also love mutual pining.  
> This is the first thing I've finished/posted, and I'd ask you to comment but please be kind.  
> I'm somewhat behind on the podcast, so please forgive any inaccuracies.

The walk out of the lonely was long, insofar as any passage of time could be applied to The Lonely. But it felt long, hazy. Travelling through endless fog, the sound of the waves fading away so slowly that Martin didn’t realize they were fading until they were already gone. Jon held his hand, strong and warm, the entire time. Martin didn’t know what to make of that. 

Eventually, he realized that they were wandering around the tunnels, not the Lonely, a slide from one to the other so subtle that Martin hadn’t realized, although the determined, focused look on his face told Martin that Jon had noticed the change. He tugged gently on Jon’s hand. Jon stopped, turning to face him with gratifying speed. 

“You, ah, you know where we’re going?”

Jon smiled, squeezing Martin’s hand, and looking at him with unprecedented gentleness, “I told you. I know the way.” 

After a moment, Martin nodded and they continued. 

After wandering the tunnels for what felt like an eternity of seemingly identical dank walls, with Jon stopping at random intervals, a small frown on his face before setting out again with renewed determination, they stopped at a heavy looking door. 

“This is it. I’m - Martin I’m not sure what’s on the other side-” 

“It’s fine. We’ll deal with it together.” said Martin, squeezing Jon’s hand with a surety he did not feel. 

Jon looked up at Martin with that same, curious, gentle smile, before opening the door. 

Behind it was the depths of the Archives, walls of disorganized bookcases covered in an assortment of dust, books, and piles of loose paper. 

“Never got quite this far in, huh?” Jon asked in a lightly self deprecating tone to which Martin gave a thin smile. Jon took another look around the Archives before giving a heavy sigh, “Let's go see what we can salvage.”

After a long search of the lower levels of the institute, where they found a disturbing splash of blood against an otherwise innocuous hallway wall, and a knife deeply embedded in the wall of the Archives break-room, they stumbled upon Basira. She was slightly rumpled, breathing in measured breaths with her head in her hands, sitting on the research department’s couch. In a surprisingly gentle tone, Jon said “Basira?”

Her head shot up, “Jon. Martin. You’re back.”

“Where is - where is everyone? Daisy?” asked Jon. 

The corner of Basira’s mouth twitched downward before her face smoothed out to an expression of almost eerie blankness. “Gone.”

“What does - what do you-” Jon asked, stepping forward and pulling Martin with him. 

“They’re - she’s - gone. Off. She’s gone.” The look Basira gave Jon, so blank and carefully empty, made it clear that she would say no more on the matter. 

“Basira, I am so sor-”

“Leave it. She made her choice.” The conversation was clearly finished, and Jon seemed unwilling to disrupt Basira, unsure of what to say without making it worse. Martin however, had seen this. Martin had been this before, and leapt to offer up a distraction. 

“Where do we go from here?” 

The grateful expression that crossed Basira’s face told him that he had made the right choice. “The two of you need to get away. You’ll be the first suspects for this whole fiasco. After the Prentiss incident, and Letner after that, I’d be astonished if you weren’t charged with something by the sectioned officers just to have a reason to keep tabs on you. Daisy - ah Daisy had a safe-house in Scotland, you’ll go there. It’ll be safe. You won’t be able to access your accounts, by the end of the day they’ll have you at the top of the suspect list.” 

“I have - I have some saved,” offered Jon, “Whatever else has happened, Elias made sure I was fairly well compensated. But it won’t hold us over forever.” 

“That might be a concern down the road, I don’t know how long you’ll be under scrutiny.” Jon and Basira lapsed into thoughtful silence for a moment, considering their next move. 

“I might - I might have a solution.” Martin offered. “Peter, he - he didn’t handle his own accounts when the banks started moving online. He’d either have to learn how to use a computer or go to a real bank and talk to a real person, which - might literally have killed him. So he left the finances up to me.” 

“Really? How much do you have access to?” asked Basira, intrigued. 

“Peter had a private account, it can’t be traced to him, so it can’t be traced to me, and I have all the access information. So, all his money? I think? Most of it at least.” 

After a moment of impressed, astonished staring Jon offered, “Well, I suppose that solves that problem then.”

“Yeah, uh, excellent!” said Basira, still a little surprised. “Right. You’ll need to be out of the country as soon as possible. It’ll take the police a little while to sort this mess out so you should have time to stop by your flats, but don’t stop anywhere else, and be quick about it. The door key is in a false electric socket under the front window.” She looked at Jon, “I’ll send some statements along as soon as I can but it’ll be a week or two. There’s a post box a few towns over, there’s instructions and a key in the safe-house. I’ll send them there. You can call me on a payphone but you need to ditch your mobiles as soon as possible. Daisy - uh, Daisy and I are the only ones who know about the safe house. So you should be safe for the time being.” Basira spoke with a confidence that indicated she had thought about this before, only stumbling a moment over Daisy’s name. 

“Thank you Basira. For - for everything” said Jon. 

Her face remained impassive but her grip tight when they shook hands and said “Get going. Take my car, Daisy has a spare stashed away I’ll use for the time being,” she said, tossing Martin the key, “I’ll let you know if there’s any updates. Stay safe.” 

“You too,” Martin said softly, “call if you need anything. Anything Basira.” 

She looked away before saying softly, “I will. Thank you.”

Jon tugged Martin away as Basira lowered her head back into her hands. 

Jon and Martin made their way to the document storage room quickly, where Jon grabbed a duffel bag and started shoving rumpled clothes into it from under the cot. Upon catching Martin’s confused look Jon, with noticeable embarrassment, said “After the - the murder charges and everything, I lost my flat and I thought it would be easier to just stay here.”

Martin offered a thin smile, “I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

Jon offered up another of those gentle, hesitant smiles before continuing his packing. 

After stopping at Jon’s office to grab a handful of statements, recorders and tapes, they left in Basira’s car to drop by Martin’s flat, finally letting go of each other’s hands when they had to get into the car. Over the course of their drive, Martin noticed Jon sneaking furtive glances his way. Checking on him no doubt. Never attentive even at the best of times, this behavior from Jon was unusual, as though if he looked away from Martin for more than a moment he would disappear back into the fog. 

As Martin pulled into a spot outside his building, Jon took a breath and gently asked, “Do you - do you want me to - stay here? I don’t want to- to crowd you, or- or-” 

“No! No, I mean, come up with me, it’s- it’s fine!” The nervous energy that had built between them over the course of their drive abated as Jon and Martin walked in companionable, if exhausted silence to Martin’s apartment. 

It was only as Martin was unlocking the door that he thought to worry about the state of his apartment. His days had been passing in such a foggy blur that he couldn’t recall the last time he cleaned his flat. It could well have been Monday, or just as easily could have been two months ago. 

“I’m sorry about the - the state of things, I’ve been … busy, lately.” Martin said, as he pushed the door open. He took a glance around to determine how much he would have to apologize for, and found it tidier than he might have hoped. There was a sweater over the back of the couch, and a single bowl and spoon sitting in the silk, but no undue mess beyond that. When was the last time someone had sat on that couch, besides Martin himself? When was the last time he had had anyone over? He genuinely couldn’t recall. And what a small, sad, self pitying thought that was…

He was startled out of his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder. “Martin?” 

“Oh- oh yes?” 

“You were, ah, drifting, it seemed?” the hesitant inflection in Jon’s voice turning it into a question. 

“Oh, oh I’m so sorry, I’m fine, it’s fine-” 

“No I just- just wanted to be sure you were alright.” 

“Oh. Thank you,” said Martin quietly. 

After a moment of peaceful silence Jon clapped his hands together and said “Now, where do you keep your duffel bag?” 

After finding his duffel under his washroom sink (for reasons mysterious even to himself) Martin made quick work of packing clothes, a toothbrush, and a couple of books that he remembered enjoying. He also grabbed a photo of himself and his mother that he remembered holding sentimental value that, like the books, made him feel nothing at all now. He still felt a dull ache at the thought of his mother of course. But the picture that he had looked at imagining a different childhood, a different adulthood contained within the smiles in its frame, didn’t cause the same painful pull of longing and melancholy that it used to. Perhaps it would come back. Perhaps he would have to make new memories, new nostalgia. 

He returned to Jon who was poking around the bookshelf in his living room. Without turning around, Jon gestured to the shelf and asked, “Are you taking this?” 

“Oh, I wasn’t planning on it. I’ll pack what food I’ve got in the kitchen, sorry it’s not a lot, but besides that I think I’ve got everything.”

“Do you mind if I bring a few books then?” 

“Oh! Oh, of- of course, help yourself! I’ll just go and- and finish packing then. Just- just finish packing then,” Martin trailed off as Jon returned to the bookshelf, before fleeing to the kitchen to finish packing up the food. 

Jon. Jon wanted to read his books. His books. Books that he had read. That had meant something to him at some point, even if he couldn’t seem to find what they meant to him now. For some reason, the thought seemed unbearably intimate, as though Jon was about to peer into his head and thumb through his thoughts. 

By the time he had returned to the front door, Jon had his shoes on and an armful of books. “I hope that you don’t mind, I suspect I’ll find quite a lot of time for recreational reading and these seem - interesting?” 

“No, no, feel free!”

They piled back in the car and settled in for the journey. Martin was content to drive, and Jon fiddled with the radio until he settled on an indie rock channel. Despite the pile of books that he had carried out to the car, Jon seemed perfectly content to stare out the window and make idle chat with Martin. For the most part they didn’t talk about anything of consequence, discussing instead the validity of the word YOLO entering the dictionary (Jon firmly opposed, Martin arguing for acceptance of linguistic shift), essential themes in Tolkien’s works, and which cats were the most adorable. 

They finally turned down an almost invisible side road that should lead to Daisy’s safe house around 7:00, the daylight starting to fade from the sky. The safe-house when they came upon it was surprisingly picturesque. A one story brick cottage, among sparse trees and untended grasses and a green front door. 

“I didn’t expect something quite this … pretty.” said Martin in a tone of mild surprise. 

“I suppose there’s no reason for a safe house to be made entirely of - of rebar and steel sheets.” said Jon in a similar tone of mild perturbment . 

Martin found the false socket under the window and the key inside, just where Basira had said it was. “Alright, let’s head in.” 

Just as Martin was about to slide the key into the lock, Jon looked at him with a steady gaze and asked, “Do you mind if I-” holding his hand out for the key. 

“Um, sure?” Martin handed Jon the key, and proceeded to open the door and step inside, gesturing for Martin to follow. 

The cottage was as nice inside as outside, an old but comfortable looking couch and two chairs could be seen in the living room, and an open, if small, kitchen immediately to the left of the door. Martin put the food down in the kitchen to be put away shortly, then went to find Jon, who had decided to open the closed doors, three to the right, one at the end of the hall on the left. Two of the doors lead to small but serviceable bedrooms, and the middle door to a linen closet. The one on the left opened to a surprisingly well appointed bathroom, where Jon was putting a toothbrush and toothpaste into the cabinet next to the sink. 

“I didn’t have any bread, but there’s a can of soup I can heat up for dinner?” Martin offered. 

“That sounds go-” Jon was interrupted by his own bone-cracking yawn, before finishing “-od.” 

“I’m so sorry, I should have thought, you should go to bed. I’ll wake you when dinner is ready, you must be exhausted.” 

Jon was giving Martin an odd look. “Martin, it was just a yawn.” 

“Yes, but you came all that way, and I have no idea when you last slept, and I doubt getting us out of the lonely was easy-” 

“Martin, Martin,” Jon said, “I suspect that you’re as tired as I am, you willingly walked into the lonely, and then walked back out. You’re dead on your feet and you’ve been driving all day. I’m fine.” 

“But you-” 

Jon leveled a carefully even look at him before saying “Martin, I will not go to bed until you do. We’re both exhausted. We’ll heat up some soup, and then turn in together.” 

Martin blushed lightly at that, but nodded and turned toward the kitchen to start the soup, Jon following close behind. 

Martin and Jon ate their soup in silence at the little kitchen table, before picking their bags back up and moving to the bedrooms. 

“Where - ah, which one would you - would you like?” asked Martin, holding tightly to the strap of his duffel with both hands, slung over his shoulder. 

Jon’s eyes widened fractionally before he gave a curt nod and said “They look to be pretty much the same. I’ll take this one,” said Jon, gesturing to the bedroom closest to the back door. “I’ll - erm - I’ll see you in the morning then.” 

Martin nodded and went to open the door to the - his - room when Jon reached out suddenly gripping Martin’s forearm. He looked up at Martin with a serious, almost desperate look in his eye, “If you need - anything Martin. Anything at all. I’m right here.”

After a moment of tense, surprised silence Jon nodded sharply and turned to his own room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Martin, still slightly shocked at the outburst, entered his own room. 

The bed was surprisingly large and dominated the small room, covered in a quilt, and a set of well used drawers was placed beside the door. The bedside table was just big enough to fit the heavy lamp on top of it and upon inspection, the single drawer was empty. The whole room was terribly quaint, and didn’t at all fit with Martin’s view of Daisy. Had she used the cottage, these drawers, often enough to create the shallow scratches on its top?Had she been the one to tarnish the closet handle, through repeated use? Had she bought the quilt on a whim, was it a family heirloom? 

Martin sighed heavily, putting his duffel bag and his thoughts to the side. He pulled out pajamas, deciding to leave unpacking for tomorrow, before sliding under the blankets and turning off the light. He fell almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin was woken at eleven the next day by light streaming in through the little window in his room. Upon pulling himself, still yawning, out of bed, he stumbled blearily into the kitchen to start on tea and decide what to make for lunch. The tea had just finished brewing and Martin was moving the tea bags to a plate, when Jon stumbled in wearing an oversized t-shirt and boxers, still looking half asleep. 

“Morning,” said Martin with a smile. 

“Ahhh-gnea?” said Jon through a massive yawn, which Martin took to mean ‘tea’, that he took when proffered with a deep, close-eyed inhale. “Hmmmmm”

“Not a morning person then?” Martin asked, despite already having a good idea of the answer. 

“Hmnmmm”

After a moment Jon took his tea into the living room, eyes still mostly closed, curling into a ball pressed into the corner of the couch while Martin pulled out a pot for breakfast-lunch soup. After a few minutes Jon spoke up, “M-rtn? Where’d you go?”

“Someone’s gotta make breakfast.” 

“Ahhh. ‘kay.” 

Eventually Martin wandered out of the kitchen, clutching two bowls of soup. “Not typical breakfast fare I’ll admit, but it’ll get us to the store at least.”

“Mmm. It’ll be nice to get out of the house.” 

Of course. Of course, Martin thought, he doesn’t want to spend all his time here with you. He’ll go mad in a week with just you for company, lord knows he wasn’t happy when you were living in the archives. 

“Yeah, that’ll be - that’ll be nice.” 

The village they had passed through the night before looked even more picturesque in the light of day, full flowerpots down a main street of old buildings, and a quaint, family run general store. It was agreed that since they were living on Lukas money, they’d be willing to pay slightly more at the family owned store than at the chain store two streets over. 

Although not particularly crowded, the grocery store was more heavily populated than Martin would have liked. He was unused to being around people after so long half in the Lonely, and now being in a social space seemed to exhaust him, even without talking to anyone other than Jon, and brief chat with the cashier. 

“Oh, should we check the Waterstones, see if there’s anything of interest?” Jon asked excitedly. 

“Oh - um - sure. If you like.” Martin replied. 

Jon turned so that he was facing Martin, looked up at him so that their eyes met, and gave him a considering look. “Are you sure? Because frankly it’s all the same to me, I’d be as happy to go home. I picked up enough books from your flat to tide me over, and we can always go next time.”

Martin made steady eye contact with his shoes. “It’s - the people. It’s kind of … a lot, after the Lonely.”

Jon nodded and pulled Martin back towards the car, towards home. 

After putting everything away in the kitchen, Jon and Martin started cleaning the house, sweeping, washing the sheets, and trying to find all of the guns and knives that Daisy had squirreled away. The guns were (thankfully) all locked in the gun cabinet in the living room, the key to which they found on top of the fridge. The knives were a different story entirely, with a cache of them in the gun cabinet, another under the sink in the kitchen, two under each of the beds, and one taped confusingly on top of one of the rafters. Neither of them could actually see that knife, but Jon Knew it was there, and informed Martin of that fact with some confusion. 

Eventually they settled down to reading on the couch, Jon thoroughly engrossed in a collection of e.e. cummings poetry he had grabbed from Martin’s, and Martin trying, and largely failing to read a paperback novel they had found on the bookshelf in the cottage. He kept getting distracted, slipping back into the thoughtless absence that had categorized his life under the Lonely, turning pages slower and slower until he was staring into the middle distance with his book half open on his lap. Eventually Jon looked up and gently tugged at the blanket covering Martin’s legs. 

“I’m a little chilly. Do you mind -?” 

“Oh, yeah of course,” Martin immediately moved to pass the blanket to Jon, but was stopped in his tracks when Jon shuffled over and tucked himself under the blanket next to Martin, let out a contented sigh, and continued reading. Although Martin still found himself distracted, he found he didn’t feel quite so distant. He was brought back to himself by the way Jon kept twitching his head to get hair out of his face, but couldn’t seem to be bothered to actually re-tye it. How he gripped the book with gentle hands. How he chewed the inside of his lip intermittently. 

Eventually Jon stood up with a languid stretch and a small groan. “I’m going to head for a shower. It’s been two days since I last showered and I feel greasy.”

Martin let out a small huff of laughter before reaching out with a grabby hand, “I don’t believe that, let me feel your hair.”

To Martin’s astonishment, Jon smiled. A shy, close lipped smile as though he was happily surprised at the request, fearful that it would be taken away, and leaned forward. Martin ruffled Jon’s hair gently and said, “Feels fine to me.”

Jon huffed a laugh, “It’s ah - I know it’s probably fine but after - after Prentiss I …”

“Ahhh. Of course.” Martin remembered Jon shortly after Prentiss’s attack, paranoid and fearful. He also remembered asking Tim and the Not-Sasha who had brought in the coarse soap by the sink, determining that Jon must have brought it in when both Tim and Not-Sasha denied all knowledge. Martin remembered catching a glimpse of Jon wiping at his arms and his legs as though trying to dislodge dust or insects, a new nervous tic after Prentiss that he would have hated anyone to see. Martin had never brought it up, given that there were some more pressing concerns about Jon’s mental health at the time, but he remembered once seeing a fallen strand of Jon’s hair brush the back of his neck, causing him to politely, but rapidly, bolt from the room to run his hands through his hair, over the back of his neck, and wash his hands to near bleeding with the new soap next to the sink. 

Jon had been able to stop reaching for the soap any time he felt so much as a phantom tingle, but he had remained meticulously clean ever since, even while living at the archives, growing more disheveled by the day. 

Sleep did not come so easily that night as it had the night before. He and Jon had been so exhausted from the trials of the day, of the last months, that they had both slipped into blissful unconsciousness and stayed that way through the night. Now, without the weight of acute exhaustion weighing him so heavily to the bed, Martin found himself restless as he had been before he was fully shoved into the Lonely. Every concern, every fear, at the forefront of his mind, exacerbated by the relative silence around him. 

Crickets and bugs made small noises outside, the empty rustling of wind through leaves reminding Martin uncomfortably of the almost-silence in the Lonely. Nothing around for miles. Nothing to miss him if he went missing. Except Jon, he supposed, but even then. Jon wouldn’t miss him forever. There had been no one who had wanted to keep him for more than a few years at most, and cooped up so closely together Jon would surely grow tired of him. Martin couldn’t hear him in the other room, he could well have disappeared already. Martin couldn’t well blame him for it if he had, couldn’t figure out what was keeping him here in the first place. 

Perhaps some sense of pity, or duty. Duty would be right for Jon, he was constantly running headfirst into danger and self sacrifice out of duty. He had gone into the Buried for Daisy for christ’ sake. 

Martin spent the rest of the night in restless sleep, mired in resigned thoughts. 

When it was finally late enough in the morning for Martin to get out of bed without it being strange enough to comment on, Martin went to the kitchen and started on tea for himself. Just as he was sitting down at the tiny kitchen table, Jon stumbled out of his own room. He looked still half asleep if the way he was blinking in the morning light was any indication. He dropped into the chair across from Martin like a puppet with its strings cut. 

“Morning,” said Martin

Jon grunted. Martin had been around him long enough to know that he was simply too tired to formulate responses. It had been common enough when he was living in the Archives that Jon would fall asleep at his desk, or if he was really lucky, he’d make it to the couch. In the mornings Martin would bump into Jon, sometimes trying to brew himself coffee or rifling through files, and their limited conversations almost always consisted of Jon grunting responses to Martin’s questions. He was usually awake enough to form responses by the time Tim and Sasha got in, but the fact that Jon didn’t immediately bolt back to his office when he had grabbed his tea, despite Martin’s rambling early morning chatter, was telling enough. 

“How’d you sleep?” asked Martin as he slid Jon his tea. 

“Mm. Fine.” Jon held the mug up to his nose and breathed in, “Tired.”

Eventually Jon woke up enough to formulate actual sentences so Martin suggested stopping at the bookstore. 

“That sounds lovely. Will that be alright? After yesterday?” 

“It should be fine. We can always come back if it gets overwhelming, right?”

Jon smiled, a shy little smile up at Martin, “Of course.”

They made their way back into town and just before they turned into the Waterstones parking lot Jon exclaimed, “Oh! Look, there!” pointing out the window. 

Martin leaned over Jon to look out the passenger side to where Jon was pointing. He could see an overpriced clothing shop, a little cafe, and on the corner a residential home turned shop, called Copperplate Books. “Oh! Should we go there instead?” 

Jon suddenly looked slightly nervous. “It might- it might be nice? It looks like something that might appeal to your er retro aesthetic?” 

“Oh, I’d love to!” Jon took a sharp breath in on the word ‘love’, but when Martin looked over he was smiling again, so he assumed he must have misheard. 

The shop had clearly been a residential home before being converted into a bookstore. The inside was a wide hallway made narrower by the desk set just under the stairs to the second floor, a severe grey haired old woman sitting behind the register reading. Three other doorways led into rooms filled bottom to top with crowded books on densely packed bookshelves. The old woman looked up briefly to acknowledge Jon and Martin as having entered her space, before turning immediately back to her reading. 

Jon and Martin wandered around the shelves, perusing the books. Jon was never out of Martin’s sight, although if this was by design or happenstance was unclear. Tucked in and among the bookshelves were esoteric little oddities. A surprisingly tacky cat shaped book end, a windowsill crowded with little succulents, framed pages from a medieval text. Martin picked up a few paperback fantasy novels, and Jon grabbed a book on weaving, one on the history of blue pigment across the world, and one on the history and culture surrounding rats. While they were checking out Martin made polite conversation with the woman. 

It turned out that her name was Bridgett, and she had come here to retire after a career as an arbitrator, and later as a school principal. She was severe and self possessed, and unphased by the fact that Jon was too busy flipping through the books they had just purchased to so much as look at her. 

When they got back to the cottage Jon sat down with his book on pigment, and nodded when Martin mentioned he was going for a shower. Martin grabbed pajamas, feeling that if he were to be in a safe-house with little else to do he may as well be comfortable. 

Jon looked up as Martin came at a fast clip to the couch, “Is everything alright?”

“Jon. Jon. Do you only shower with soap?”

“Yes? Why?”

“Shampoo, conditioner, it’s just bar soap?”

“Yes? Why?”

Martin burst out laughing. 

“Why is that funny?” asked Jon, thoroughly confused. 

Martin, now laughing so hard he was bent over at the waist, replied, “Jon, people usually use shampoo!” 

“I never saw why, it’s all just soap isn’t it?” said Jon, still staring in bafflement. 

“Sort of, but not really! This explains the split ends.”

Jon reached up to gently touch his hair, “Split ends?” 

Martin, having calmed down some, sat near to Jon on the couch and reached over to run his fingers through the very ends of Jon’s hair. “Yeah, see you shower a lot right?” 

Jon nodded. “Every day, sometimes twice, since after Prentiss.” 

“Yeah, so basically it’s like - you know if you wash your hands too much the skin gets dry, to the point that sometimes it cracks? It’s like that but on your hair, that’s why you use conditioner.” 

“So it actually has a purpose then? It’s not just a marketing thing, like women’s razors?”

“It’s like - it’s like the moisturizer of your hair.”

“The moisturizer of your hair,” Jon said with a grin, nodding. “Alright. I take it you had the foresight to pick up conditioner then?” 

“I did. I’ll leave it in the shower for you.” 

“Thanks.” 

Martin got up and walked back towards the washroom. Jon, touching the scraggly tips of his hair, looked up at Martin, “are they- are they that bad?” 

Martin looked down at Jon with an expression of mild surprise, that melted into something soft. “No Jon. I brought it up because, it’s like if your hands were dry. Even if they weren’t dry enough to hurt, it’s nicer if they’re soft, and healthy right? You deserve to have healthy hair. You don’t have to, but it might be nice to try.”

Jon nodded, feeling strangely settled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up projecting on to Martin, and to a much greater extent Jon in this chapter. Hope you all don't mind my feelings everywhere!

The rest of the week and much of the next was spent the same way. Trips into town were short, but getting longer as Martin built up his tolerance to being around people again. By the end of the second week he was able to have what felt like a normal length conversation with one of the regulars at the store, although it was exhausting. He spent the remainder of the day sitting on the couch with a book in his lap that he didn’t seem to be able to focus on, but he didn’t fade from view, and when Jon brought him tea in the evening he accepted it with a taught but genuine smile. 

They had traveled to the post box a week into their stay, two towns over and forty five minutes away and found a half dozen statements that Basaira had sent, on top of the thirty or so statements that Jon had brought from the Archives. Basira knew that they weren’t short on statements yet, but wanted to be sure that everything would go smoothly with the post box before things got dire. 

They gave her a call on the phone booth while they were there. The conversation was short, but apparently the sectioned officers didn’t yet know where they were and there was no word on Elias, which was almost more unsettling than if they had heard he was looking for them. Basira was on Daisy’s tail, it looked like she was hunting Montauk and Trevor Herbert, but so far Daisy had been very, very good at staying a step ahead of Basira. Before saying goodbye Basira recommended that their next call come from a different payphone, in case someone was watching her phone, and a request to stay safe. 

It was 2:38 in the morning according to the clock on the oven, which meant it was actually 2:32 as Jon knew that the clock on the oven was running six minutes fast, as opposed to the little analogue clock on the mantelpiece that usually ran three minutes behind, and the big clock in the town square that ran a full ten minutes behind. This wasn’t a byproduct of the Beholding. Jon had always kept an almost unconscious track of how fast or slow the clocks he came into contact with were. He knew how fast or slow every clock was, in every classroom all through secondary school. He knew in the Archives too, that the wall clock in the artifact storage room would lose two minutes per week if it wasn't adjusted every couple of days. 

The reason that Jon had to be reflecting on this at 2:38-but-actually-2:32 in the morning was yet another nightmare. He had been having them as regularly as ever after that first night of blissful sleep. Martin was still deep asleep, Jon Knew, having Looked for him automatically upon waking and still too asleep to remember why he shouldn’t. Jon was glad he had, if he hadn’t he would have checked on Martin in person upon waking, and even Martin, with his endless patience, would likely have felt that Jon standing over him staring creepily in the wee hours of the morning was the final straw, and then he would leave. 

Not that that would be the worst thing. Certainly the worst thing for Jon, but probably the best thing that Martin could do for himself. To find people - normal people - to connect with. Before the Lonely Martin had been outgoing, always seemed to know who was retiring, pregnant, getting married, and was always the first to get to know new employees when he was working in research. So it would be good for Martin to spend time with someone … normal, when he was otherwise trapped here with Jon. 

Christ, even before he had been turned into a monster he had barely been normal. More a collection of bad habits strung up between annoying personal traits. It was a wonder Martin ever sought him out, especially as he had gotten to know him. Every time Martin had pulled him from his office for lunch, Jon assumed that it must be the last time. That this time he would look a little too distant while Martin was talking, say something a little too strange, would talk a little too much about whatever he was working on, and Martin would finally realize that Jon wasn’t worth it. That Martin, having finally seen Jon as he was, and too polite to be honest about it, would gently pull away. He wouldn’t be cruel about it, that wasn’t in Martin’s nature. Yet another reason Martin was beyond him. He would simply extricate himself from Jon’s life until they were no more than the sort of co-workers who nodded when passing in the halls, but didn’t actually stop to say hello. Better not to get used to Martin’s kindness than be bereft of it when he left. 

And now, Jon couldn’t stop himself from Knowing things, even things about Martin. He had to be careful with every question he asked so as not to force Martin to answer, and in his enthusiasm he wasn’t always careful. Martin insisted that he understood, didn’t hold it against him, but even before his transformation he could do little other than take Martin’s word for it. 

He wouldn’t be able to address any issue Martin might have unless Martin chose to bring it up himself. He had never figured out the secret language that his peers had seemed to, never learned the tones of voice, the expressions, the little twitches and movements that everyone else seemed to be able to turn into meaning. It always felt as though some deep understanding was conveyed that he hadn’t been paying attention to until it was too late. 

Jon’s head shot up as he heard Martin’s door open. He could see Martin creeping out of his room on utterly silent feet towards the kitchen sink, where he quickly poured and downed a glass of cold water, all in utter, surreal silence. It was as though someone had taken footage of Martin, and then muted it, except that Jon could still hear the wind and the crickets in the tall grass outside. 

“Martin?”

Martin jumped, but managed to hold onto his glass, despite his free hand gripping at his chest. “Christ Jon, I didn’t realize you were up!”

“Oh - oh I’m so sorry! Is everything alright? What are you doing up at this time of night?”

Martin shrugged. “Nightmare. What else anymore?” Martin refilled his glass and took a sip, “Wait, what are you doing up? It isn’t any less -” Martin made a show of inspecting the oven clock, “2:49 in the morning for you than it is for me.”

Jon laughed hollowly, hating the parallel between Martin’s genuine trauma, and his own voyeuristic dreams. “Nightmare. What else?”

Martin stepped closer to Jon, saying in a soft voice, “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why but I had hoped that away from the Archives they might have …” 

“Disappeared?” 

“Abated some. I suppose not.” 

“No. God forbid I could be that lucky. They’re the same as they always are.” Jon reached up and rubbed his eyes. On the very edge of his hearing Jon heard Martin move around the arm of the couch to sit next to him. At least he could hear Martin again, quiet as he may be. 

Jon kept his hands over his eyes, no longer rubbing, now simply offering the comfort of control. “It’s fine. It’s fine, I didn’t even go through these experiences. I just - I just watch so it’s fine.”

“Jon … you know I’ve read them too. I know what it’s like, it’s like living it again. It’s not nothing.”

“I don’t - Martin, I’m doing this to people. I don’t - I don’t need -” 

“Hold up. This isn’t something you’re doing to people, this is something being done to you. You deserve comfort.” 

“Yes but not from you!” Jon exclaimed, pulling his hands from his eyes in time to see Martin recoil slightly. “Not - I don’t mean like that! I mean - Martin, you’ve been through so much and I’m sitting here whining because I’m torturing people while they sleep! I shouldn’t need your comfort because between the two of us, you’re the one who deserves it!” 

Martin took a deep breath through his nose, a slight frown on his brow. “Okay,” he said after a moment, “Okay, there’s a lot to unpack there. First, I’d like to address - if it were up to you, would you be standing idly by in the dreams like this? Like - if you had the choice, would you still opt to dip into people’s dreams knowing it might be hurting them?” 

“No, god no. When I realized I tried - I tried so hard to help, to yell, anything. To do anything not to.” 

“Okay,” Martin said, nodding, “Then you’re not ‘doing this’ to people. You have to sleep. You tried to help. This isn’t your choice and it’s out of your hands. That means that it’s not your fault. To build off of that, you don’t get to decide about deserve. It’s not up to you, and between the two of us, if we’re counting traumas, you’ve got more than me by a fair margin.” 

“Yes, but I can handle it.” 

“Can I - not?” 

“No, I mean you - you shouldn’t have to.” 

“Jon, I don’t know how to break this to you, but you shouldn’t have to either. Just because you can handle it doesn’t mean that you should torture yourself pointlessly when there are other options.” 

When Martin said it, it sounded … reasonable. 

“And I suspect this hasn’t occurred to you, but dealing with someone else’s problems is … something of a coping mechanism for me. It feels like I have some … control. Like I’m able to help or fix something. It’s … centering for me. If I need comfort, I’ll try and reach out and tell you. I can’t - I can’t promise that I will, that’s something I’ve always had … trouble with. But I can promise that I’ll try, and I’ll not resent you for not reading my mind.” 

“Okay. Okay.” Jon breathed in, feeling more settled than he had in a long time. “Do you - do you want to talk about what you were dreaming about?” Jon asked hesitantly. 

Martin shrugged. “Nothing much to say really. Just, back in the Lonely. It’s not pleasant, but there’s never anything new to say about it.” 

Jon looked at Martin, pale and drawn after days of fitful sleep, remembered how silent, how half-there he had been on stepping out of his room, and reached out. He wasn’t usually the one to initiate contact. It always felt so heavy, so complicated. No way to tell if it was welcome, or what precisely was wanted, the hesitancy in his movements making his failing obvious. But here he reached out, slowly, to allow Martin time to pull away if he wished. He touched the back of Martin’s hand, which turned over to hold his own. Not hesitantly, but firmly, comfortably, warmly. 

Not much else was said over the intervening hours. Eventually Jon and Martin melted together, until at seven they were leaning heavily on one another, each almost laying across the couch to reach one another. Perhaps they had dozed, but mostly they had sat in comfortable, tired silence. 

Jon was the first to break the silence, speaking softly in Martin’s ear already so close to his mouth. “Do you want some tea?” 

“Mmm?” Martin blinked sleepily, “Uhh sure. Love some.” 

Jon gently detangled himself and set about making tea for the both of them. 

When he came back he sat almost as close to Martin as they had been sitting through the night, before passing Martin his tea. 

“Oh! This is perfect, did you Know how I take it?” 

Jon blushed slightly. “Oh, no actually. I’ve been trying not to Know things for the most part, although sometimes the Beholding will just … push information in, like an intrusive thought? Right now it really wants me to know …” Jon took a moment to assess, eyes going glassy, “A standard Olympic sized swimming pool holds 660 253.09 gallons of water,” his eyes refocused in the present, “But it declines to inform me what the dimensions are. I try not to acknowledge it, and not to seek out information that isn’t … offered, as it were.” 

Martin’s eyes were wide when Jon looked back to him. “Oh. Neat! So, how did you know then?” 

“Ah.” Jon’s blush, which had subsided while he was talking, returned in full force. “I - erm - I pay attention I suppose? It’s - it’s only about certain things. You made me tea often, so I made a point to - to know.” 

‘Right? But … how?” 

Oh god. Jon knew this was … odd of him. That he didn’t know Martin’s favourite colour, or his father’s name, or when his birthday was, but he knew the specifics of how Martin made his tea despite never having asked. But Martin was … important. And the tea was important. Some tender part of him had decided it was important, and although he may not ever have the opportunity, it had felt important to learn these tiny finicky details. Satisfying in some way that had nothing to do with Beholding and everything to do with caring deeply for someone. “When we were in the break room together I’d just … make a note of how you prepared it. You always washed one of the small spoons even if the big ones were clean, I caught you put the timer on once, you steeped it for fifteen minutes because you were worried you were going to forget about it. You usually took fruity black teas, but I heard you say once that the mint we had made your mouth taste like toothpaste. I don’t know, I just … picked it up I suppose.” 

When Jon looked up from his hands where he had been fiddling with the end of the tea bag, he saw an incomprehensibly soft look on Martin’s face. 

“Oh … thank you Jon.” 

Jon shrugged, avoiding Martin’s almost painfully tender gaze, and took a sip of his own tea. 

Over the next week and a half these meetings became nightly occurrences. While the days were filled with reading, trips to town, and idle, easy chatter, the nights were still besieged by terrors. Jon and Martin would retire to their separate beds in the evening for a few hours of fitful sleep before making their way back into the living room, where they would talk quietly until drifting back to sleep on the couch, leaning against each other. 

Jon woke with a start, already scrambling out of bed, leaving blankets strewn strewn about the floor in his haste to escape. 

He ended up in front of the kitchen sink, lights still off and half blind in the moonlight. He grabbed the coarse soap for grease and dirt and started furiously scrubbing at his hands, still able to feel the worms burrowing into the meat of him. 

The quiet creak of a door, then “Jon? What’s - what’s going on?” 

Even Martin’s interruption didn’t slow his scrubbing. He could feel the soap, stinging, catching on worm bites and irregularities but not able to stop. 

“Jon?” Martin said, approaching slowly and turning on the kitchen light, “Are you alright?” 

He only became aware of how fast and desperate his breathing was when faced with Martin’s cautious step and slow, even tone. 

“Jon, you’re worrying me some. I’m going to try and take your hands and dry you off. If you don’t want me to, all you have to do is say, or take your hands away.” 

Martin took Jon’s hands in his own, using a dish towel to pat his hands dry, gentle but firm. 

“Was it - was it a dream?” Jon opened his mouth to speak before realizing that he wouldn’t be able to get anything legible out and settling for a nod.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Martin’s gaze was caught by their hands, no longer drying, now just holding through the thin barrier of a towel. Jon felt overwhelmingly, helplessly relieved at not having to worry about eye contact. He opened his mouth again. A tiny noise, a breath over vocal chords and nothing more. 

“Can you talk right now?” 

Jon shook his head. 

“Okay. Okay. We can work with that. If I suggest anything you don’t want just shake your head or tap my arm twice, okay?” Jon nodded. “We’re gonna sit down, alright?” Jon nodded and was led to the couch, where Martin sat him down, and then leaned in to press his lips to Jon’s forehead. Overwhelmed, both with the clinging remnants of the dream, and now Martin’s wholly unexpected behavior, it didn’t even occur to him to move until after Martin had already pulled away. He was looking just past Jon’s ear and blushing furiously, “Sorry, that’s how I always checked my mum’s temperature, I didn’t even think about it. Won’t do it again, promise,” he said as he pulled a blanket around Jon’s shoulders. 

He had already walked to the kitchen by the time Jon had arranged the words ‘you could do it again, I wouldn’t mind’, in his head, even knowing that he couldn’t say them now, and would never have the courage later. 

After asking if it was alright if he kept talking, to which Jon nodded, Martin kept up a running commentary as he fixed tea for them both, what they would be doing tomorrow, the good cow they had seen the other day, wondering if there was a book on jam-making at the little bookshop. All light, easy topics that required no input from Jon, but gave him something other than the memory of writhing, burrowing worms to focus on. 

When Martin handed Jon his tea, as perfect as every other cup he had ever made, Jon croaked out a barely audible “Sorry.” 

Martin gave him a confused look, “What are - what are you apologizing for?”

Jon tried to clear his throat, “Woke you up.” 

“You didn’t. I was half awake from a bad dream already.” 

Jon looked to his hands desperately clasping the warm tea. “Can’t talk.” 

Martin looked confused again, “Right?” 

“Irritating.” 

“What, you are? Because you can’t tell me about what’s happening?”

Jon nodded. 

“That’s okay,” Martin shrugged, “You can’t right now. And even if you can later and choose not to, that’s okay too.” 

Jon, unable to articulate why this was so unfair, merely threw his head back against the couch. Did Martin not understand how unfair it was for Jon to be sitting here, asking for Martin’s comfort and late night presence when he couldn’t even explain why he needed it? That his own body had failed him in so obvious and so inconvenient a way was only the beginning. The impotent frustration brought forth every memory, every failing of its kind. Every time his grandmother had asked him a question out of the silence and he had desperately wished there was some way other than verbal to answer. Every time a friend had said something and the group had laughed for reasons beyond his own understanding. Every time someone had thought him aloof or pretentious because of a flat affect and an even tone. 

“I’m sorry. I know how frustrating this must be.” 

Jon’s lips thinned and his gaze stayed leveled at his tea. 

“What would you like to do for the time being?” 

Jon looked around the room, eyes settling on the book on dye he hadn’t started yet. He pointed, first to the book, then to Martin, then made a ‘talking’ motion with his hand, knowing he wouldn’t be able to concentrate under oppressive silence. 

“You want me to - read to you?” 

Jon shrugged noncommittally, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleep shirt. 

Martin smiled and reached out to take the book before gesturing to his side. “There’s diagrams in this, you won’t be able to see them from all the way over there.” 

And so, Jon cuddled up to Martin justifying the closeness to himself and willfully ignoring that he would be able to see the pictures without pressing himself bodily to Martin’s side. 

After some time, listening to the soothing cadence of Martin’s reading voice and soaking up his steady warmth, Jon spoke softly, “Thank you.” 

Martin glanced at Jon and said with remarkable conviction, “Always.” 

“I don’t - erm - always get like that. But uhm … sometimes I can’t … I don’t realize I’m … awake.” Jon spoke slowly, words still an effort but coming easier now. 

“I get that sometimes too,” Martin said, fingers moving almost imperceptibly where they met Jon’s shoulder across the back of the couch, “Sometimes it’s Prentiss. Sometimes it’s the statements. It’s usually the Lonely though. I wake up, and I can’t hear a thing, and I think I must have been … imagining all this.”

“You’re not.” Jon said, quiet and gentle as a secret. 

Martin smiled down at him, tender, and with some heartbreakingly melancholy emotion. “I know that right now.” 

After a long while sitting in the warm silence Martin asked “How are you doing now?” 

Jon shrugged almost imperceptibly, not wanting to shake Martin’s arm off. “Better now. Like I said, sometimes I just … have trouble.” 

Martin nodded, encouraging but not demanding that Jon go on. 

“Sometimes it’s not a bad thing. I just feel … quiet I suppose? Good. And I don’t want to … disrupt that.” 

“Does writing it down work?” Martin asked, a considering frown on his face. 

“I haven't tried it. But I don’t think it would. It’s - it’s about the words.” 

Martin nodded, the considering frown still present, “Our little pantomime worked well earlier. We could do that again,” he suggested. 

“Martin, it’s not necessary, it’s - it’s not like I can’t talk I just -” 

“Would prefer not to sometimes,” said Martin, nodding again. “There's no reason to make yourself uncomfortable, and nothing stopping us from using the more comfortable option. Why not?” 

“Okay. If - if you’re okay with that?” 

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t.” 

Safe in the hazy, comforting warmth Jon and Martin moved from topic to topic, eventually devolving into laughingly discussing whether or not they might really find Nessie if they went looking. 

Although neither acknowledged it, they stayed pressed together all through their conversation. 

A figure crouches at the edge of a property in Scotland, carefully hidden among bushes and the black and white shadows of the trees. 

The figure shifts, slowly, but with the confident directness of a hunter stalking prey. Eyes backlit in the darkness, focus towards the cottage ahead of it, windows lit by warm lamplight. People. 

The figure creeps closer, those same careful, deliberate movements still evident, until they’re in the dark lee of the house. No one is supposed to be here. The figure must be careful not to be observed by the watcher inside. The occupants of the house are distracted if the gentle murmurings from inside are any indications, though the figure can not make out words. Distraction means safety for the figure. Distraction means the people inside are unprepared. 

A sweet wind ruffles the figure’s hair, and the grass that they’re crouched in. The evening is lovely, warm, thin clouds skidding across the sky and the bulging moon, and casting convenient shadows. Under cover of the rustling wind, the figure takes a deep breath in. The earthy smell of cows and farms, upwards of a kilometre away. Defenseless. Herd animals. Easy prey - No. Focus. In the house. The smell of tea through the closed window, scented underneath the smell of a wood fire. Two people. Scents mixed by days and days of living together, sharing space, sharing warmth. Old paper gently rustling. A quiet evening then. 

A sudden halt to the chatter inside. The figure can faintly scent an uptick in adrenaline, sweat. Breathing faster by half a beat. The silence of listening closely rather than mere lack of noise. 

The figure outside keeps breathing through their mouth, deep, even breaths, muscles taught with a practiced stillness. 

The sound of fabric shuffling, almost silent steps. Getting up, moving around on socked feet then. They’re wary, alerted, but cautious. The figure outside moves to the back corner of the house, invisible from the back door, and sinks into shadowed stillness just before the door creaks open. 

Rapid breath, two sets, one set slightly ahead of the other. Careful footsteps on the soft soil, the one in front with slightly shorter strides, ever so slightly unbalanced. The one with the weapon then. The one behind, remarkably, almost completely silent, even to the figure’s honed and practiced senses. The two creep forward, careful, considered footfalls. Careful, careful. Not too soon. 

The one in front is breathing quickly, a valiant attempt at quiet stalking, but clearly unpracticed as he breathes in short bursts through his nose. He creeps ever closer, closer. He’s turned the corner. If he turned his head and focused, he might be able to see the figure. He doesn’t. 

The figure tenses, takes a single deep breath. 

Then lunges.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! I'm so sorry that this took so long to get posted, I'm aiming not to have such a significant gap between this and the final chapter. 
> 
> it is once again project on Jon and Martin hours

Daisy was sitting on the couch, Martin and Jon in the chairs across from her. 

“Sorry. About your uh, your head.” 

Jon reached up to touch his head, which had caught a nasty crack when Daisy had jumped him but wasn’t actually bleeding. “It’s - it’s fine. Could be worse. Has been worse” he said, realizing at Daisy’s wince that she would be remembering the cut still visible across his throat. “It’s - really it’s fine.” 

The three of them lapsed into another tense silence, Daisy rubbing her hands, clasped in front of her mouth, elbows on knees. 

“I didn’t - I didn’t expect anyone to be here.” 

“Alright. Are - are you alright?” asked Jon hesitantly. 

Daisy pressed her lips together in what might have been an attempt at a smile. “I’ve been better.” 

Another tense silence, broken by Martin, “Now, I understand that this might come off as … brusque. But I feel I have to ask. Daisy, are you here to kill either of us?”

At that Daisy did smile, a sad, close lipped thing. “No. I mean, I’m not not a risk. But I’m not here to hurt you. I’m - I’m working on it.” 

“Aren’t we all,” Martin murmured, leaning back into his chair. 

“Does Basira know where you are?” asked Jon. 

Daisy suppressed a shudder and a growl at that “She does, she-” 

“Shit, shit, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to! If I’m not paying attention it sometimes just happens!” said Jon upon realizing his mistake. 

Daisy took a deep breath while the compulsion passed, and looked gratefully at Jon before continuing. “Yeah, she knows. Trevor and Julia … shouldn’t be an issue. Going forward. Basira she - uh - she found me. Told me to come here.” 

Jon nodded sharply. “Right. Right. Ah, thank you.”

“Yep.” 

Martin leaned forward again. “So where do we go from here? What now?” 

“Basira thought this would be a good place to … clear my head.” she looked down at her clasped hands. “I also think now she doesn’t trust me on my own yet.” 

“Right. Well you’re welcome here, of course.” 

Daisy laughed, her first real laugh since their reunion, warbling and thin though it was. “I should hope so, it’s my house!” Her laugh displayed her canines and premolars, all sharper than they should be, and tilting her head back like that her eyes caught the light of the fire, back-lit and reflected like a wolf. 

“Oh, right. Obviously.” said Martin with a grin. 

In the end they turned on the radio to fill the silence between tired conversations. Daisy was far too wired to even think about sleep, so Jon and Martin by unspoken agreement stayed up with her, drifting into brief sleep occasionally, but never at the same time. 

Finally it was late enough in the morning to justify breakfast, thin morning light coming in through the windows. Martin wandered to the kitchen and started on tea and instant coffee while Jon and Daisy sat in the living room. 

Martin called from the kitchen, “So, I have to know, where did you get this place? It’s so …” 

“Unlike me?” 

“Well I was going to say quaint, but sure.”

An exhausted laugh burst out of Daisy, “I bought the entire thing just before an estate sale through a third party mediator, under an alias. They were going to sell all of it piecemeal, but I was looking for a bolt hole and said I’d buy the lot at a discount, and they said yes.” Daisy looked around, taking in the well loved couch, the whitewashed walls of the kitchen, the warm floor lamp in the corner. “Glad I did. It’s nice.” 

Daisy slowed down as the day wore on, finally slipping into sleep in the early afternoon, loosely curled on the couch. 

Eventually she was woken by the smell of dinner, a quiche that Martin had prepared and roused herself to sit at the table. 

“So. How’ve the two of you been getting on?” 

Martin gave a breathless little laugh, “Remarkably relaxing to be honest, despite the constant fear of being hunted down.” 

Jon snuck a look at Martin out of the corner of his eye, seeing him happy and smiling, shining in the glow of the kitchen light. “It’s been - it’s been really rather lovely,” he said with perhaps more feeling than the question warranted. He coughed at seeing Martin’s slightly raised eyebrows, “The - the cottage is quite quaint, of course. And - and the village. The bookstore is - is delightful.” 

“Jon has been getting on quite well with the bookstore owner.” Martin said with a grin that slightly worried Jon. 

“Really? I’d pay good money to see someone Jon gets along with.” 

“Well, I think it helps that neither of them speak to each other unless we’re making a purchase.” 

Daisy let out a burst of laughter at that. “Of course, that explains it!”

“I’ll have you know,” Jon interjected, “we have also discussed the system she uses to organize the shop.”

“Jon. I was there for that conversation. You asked her where to find a history of the Scottish Comyn clan and she said it was organized by subject then alphabetically by author’s last name. Then you nodded and wandered away. That’s not a discussion!”

Eventually, they dissolved into more yawns than speaking and the decision was made to head to bed. 

“Jon? Where - ah - where are you going?” 

Jon looked to the couch, and then back up to where Martin and Daisy had moved to the hallway. “I’m sleeping on the couch?”

“Jon, you were attacked at two am this morning. You’re sleeping in a bed. I was just heading to get a pillow and a blanket, Daisy’ll sleep in mine.”

Jon looked again at the sagging couch, and back at Martin’s broad frame. “I’m significantly shorter than you Martin. It’ll be easier on me than it will on you, and that means we’ll both sleep. It’s fine, really.” 

“Jon -”

“For the love of christ, I’ve spent the last two days travelling, the beds are big enough to share, lets go.” Exclaimed Daisy. 

In an obvious effort to avoid an argument, Jon and Martin both nodded and turned to their rooms. Daisy rifled through Martin’s bag for something to wear to sleep, muttering angrily the whole time about not having planned well enough to leave a spare set of clothes in the cabin. 

“And yet, you thought to hide an arsenal under the sink.” commented Martin, sitting cross legged on bed. 

Daisy huffed, “Obviously I had my priorities right. What’s more distracting to an opponent than nudity?”

A laugh was startled out of Martin, not having expected levity from Daisy, who he had previously seen only as severe. Perhaps he could understand why Jon went into the Buried, if this was who he was trying to save. “Not a technique I’ve tried.”

“Nor have I, thank god.”

Daisy turned to shower and change in the washroom, before retiring to Jon’s room, where she found him sitting, anxious, at the end of the bed. 

“So, how would you like to divide sleeping arrangements?” Jon asked, foot tapping at a quick pace. 

“I figured you and Martin would want to share. Do you not?” 

“I - ah -” Jon shot a furtive look at the wall through which Martin presumably sat, “I don’t think that that would be a … good, idea.” 

Daisy gave Jon a long, appraising look before shrugging and throwing herself akimbo onto the bed next to him. “Alright. You’re sharing with me then.”

“Thank you,” Jon exhaled. 

When they were tucked into the covers, a careful but comfortable distance between them, Daisy spoke. 

“What’s going on with you and Martin then?” 

“Nothing. Nothing is going on.”

“You’re still pining after him then?” 

“Daisy.” 

“Seriously, what’s up with that?” 

Jon sighed heavily, looking down the blankets to avoid Daisy’s curious gaze. “In the Lonely, Martin said - he said he ‘loved me’. Past tense.”

“Ohh. Oof, ouch. I’m sorry Jon, that’s - that's rough.”

Jon shrugged, fiddling with a loose thread on his pillow. “It is what it is. I get to see him every day right now. And - and talk to him, and he’s safe, and real, and here. It’s enough.” 

Daisy reached out stilling Jon’s hand with her own, and he twisted his fingers so that they were gripping hers. They fell asleep that way. 

Jon woke up mid roll out the bed. Some premonition had woken him just fast enough to miss Daisy’s clawed swipe at him. He stumbled up against the wall as she swung at him again, growling, in the midst of some nightmare. This swing connected, tearing shallowly through Jon’s shoulder as he stumbled away again. 

“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy, wake up!” 

She stumbled back a step, blinking rapidly and breathing heavily. “J-Jon? What - what’s - oh my god!” 

Martin threw the door open just as Jon reached out a comforting hand to Daisy. “Hey it’s okay - fuck that hurts.”

“What happened?” Martin asked, breathless. 

Jon turned to Martin, gripping his bloodied shoulder and said “It’s - it’s fine now. Daisy?” Jon said, turning back to her, “How are you doing?” 

“Nightmare -” Daisy gasped out. 

Martin glanced between Jon and Daisy before gently laying his hand on Jon’s back and pushing him towards the washroom. “Okay. Okay. Jon, you go get settled in the washroom, I’ll be in in a moment to help with the bandages.” Jon turned towards the washroom, trusting that Martin was much more capable of handling this situation than he was. 

Once Jon was safely in the other room, Martin crouched near the end of the bed, trying not to block the door, “Daisy? Hey, how’re you doing?” 

Daisy, hands still shaking, said “I’m f-f-fine. Go help J-Jon.”

“Okay,” said Martin, taking a breath and speaking in a careful, even tone, “I’ll go and help Jon in a moment. How about we go sit down on the couch, and then I’ll see to Jon. Would that be alright?” 

“I don’t need coddling Martin.” Daisy snapped, showing sharpened teeth. 

Martin sighed quietly, “I know that Daisy. But I would feel better if I knew you were alright. Okay?”

Daisy considered this a moment before carefully getting up, still shaking, and allowed Martin to lead her to the couch. Once she was settled, sitting on the couch with a blanket next to her (Martin didn’t feel confident that she would respond well if he tried to put it over her shoulders right now), he made his way back to the washroom. 

He found Jon with the well appointed first aid bag open on the edge of the sink, and trying to use his non-dominant hand to clean up his left shoulder. 

“Okay, sit down.” 

“It’s fine Martin, I’ve got it. Go make sure Daisy is alright.” said Jon, not even looking up from the mirror. 

Martin rolled his eyes. “She’s sat down on the couch, I think she needs a moment. Seriously Jon, just sit down.” 

Jon seemed reluctant to go, but breathed a sigh of relief as he set himself on the closed toilet seat. 

“You know we are going to have to remove your shirt, yeah?” 

Jon sighed again, “I know.” 

“Come on, I’ll help.” Martin carefully pulled Jon’s arm through his shirt as Jon carefully suppressed a hiss of pain. 

“There we go, hardest part over,” said Martin, as he tucked Jon’s arm into his lap. 

It was slow going as Martin opened packets of antiseptic wipes and carefully cleaned the marks on his shoulder, but his hands were delicate and gentle as he worked. Jon avoided Martin’s gaze, instead choosing to watch his hands. 

Martin broke the silence as he adhered the last piece of tape to Jon’s shoulder, “There we go, good as new. They’re shallow enough, I don’t think they’ll need stitches. It’ll be a couple of days before you’ve got full range of motion again though.” 

Jon looked up, “How do you know all this?” 

“I mean, it’s pretty basic stuff,” said Martin, demuring. 

When Jon kept looking expectantly, Martin continued, “Actually, after Prentiss attacked the archives, I thought it might be a good idea to do some first aid training. I got officially certified and everything. I think my certification expired a few months ago actually, but I was too busy at the time to get it renewed.” 

Jon’s mouth pinched into a thin line, reminded of the long period of isolation that Martin had suffered, but suggested that they go check on Daisy now that he wasn’t at risk of bleeding out, to which Martin laughed and agreed. 

Daisy was still sat on the couch, head held in clawed hands, breathing deep measured breaths, but looked up quickly when Jon and Martin approached. Jon sat on the corner of the couch, drawing a spare blanket around his shoulders, and Martin sat on one of the chairs. 

“I’m sorry Jon.” Daisy said immediately. 

Jon smiled thinly. “Don’t worry about it. God knows I’ve had worse,” he said, laughing slightly.

“Seriously Jon, it didn’t occur to me that I could hurt you in my sleep,” Daisy said desperately. 

Jon took a breath and reached out to touch the back of Daisy’s hand. “Daisy. It’s alright. It didn’t occur to me either, and no permanent harm has been done. It’s okay, we’ll just figure out what to do from here.” 

Daisy nodded, “Right, right. Okay.” Daisy took a shuddering breath, “I think I need to be sleeping alone then.” 

Jon and Martin nodded, agreeing. “I’ll sleep on the couch going forward,” said Martin. 

Jon’s head shot up, “Absolutely not. You haven’t been sleeping well as it is, I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

Martin rolled his eyes, “Jon, half the time when I’ve woken up in the middle of the night you’re already up, you’re not sleeping any better than I am.” 

“Nonetheless-” 

“Look, the beds here are massive, you can share,” Daisy said wearily. 

Jon shot her a look, but Martin gave this a considering look. “I’d be comfortable with that if you are. Better than sleeping on the couch.” 

“That should be … fine.” Jon replied eventually. 

“Are you sure? Because if you’re not, I’d be happy to sleep on the couch.” 

“No, no it should be fine. I don’t really think I’ll be able to get back to sleep for a while yet though.” 

“I’ll go make some tea,” said Martin, moving to the kitchen. 

Daisy leaned towards Jon while Martin was working in the kitchen, “If you’re not comfortable sleeping in the same bed, I’ll take the couch,” she said quietly enough that Martin wouldn’t hear. 

“No it’s - it should be fine. I just don’t want to - to make him uncomfortable I suppose?” 

“Is it that, or is it that you don’t want to get used to that comfort because you’re afraid of losing it?” 

Jon glared at her and she shrugged. “It’s just a thought.” 

Martin returned with the tea and sat down. The rest of the afternoon and most of the night was spent in much the same way as the first night that Daisy had spent there, fitful sleep and quiet conversations as they waited out the night. 

By mid morning Jon and Daisy were sprawled out at opposite ends of the couch, and Martin was reading quietly near the dark fireplace when Jon spoke up. 

“Er, I’m afraid, I’ll have to - to consume? A statement? Today or tomorrow probably?” 

Daisy nodded her head drowsily. “I probably shouldn’t be here for that. Think it might set me off.”

“We can go for a walk together if you like, there are some terrific cows up the road a way.” 

Daisy snorted, “Terrific? Cows?” 

Jon coughed quietly. “They are actually … pretty terrific.” 

“Well now I have to see them.”

“We’ll go this afternoon? Does that work?” asked Daisy, shooting an inquiring look at Jon, who nodded and said, “That should be fine.” 

By early afternoon Martin and Daisy were pulling on hiking boots and jackets by the door. “We’ll probably be the better part of an hour,” called Martin from the door. 

“That should be fine, have fun seeing the cows!” 

Daisy snorted, and Martin exclaimed “Will do!” and they were gone. 

Jon pulled a statement and a recorder out of his duffel bag, set them both on the steamer trunk that served as a coffee table and settled back on the couch, before sighing heavily, depressing the ‘record’ button, and starting. 

“Statement begins …”

“So, ah, how are things?” Martin asked stiltedly, hands in pockets as they walked down the road. 

A laugh burst out of Daisy. “Oh you know, the usual. Accidentally attacking my best friend in his sleep, on the run, committed a murder, seeing the cows.” 

Martin smiled shyly and blushed “I suppose that was a stupid question wasn’t it.” 

“I can’t think of a question that wouldn’t have been to be honest. I’m managing. It’s … hard, you know? I can hear the rabbit runs over there,” she said, pointing, “and part of me wants to dig them out, and part of me wants to run, and part of me just wants to sit here and scream. Being around Jon is … difficult. I can smell the Eye on him. I don’t want to hurt him, but part of me feels I should.” 

“And … how are you handling that?” 

“Am I going to stab him in his sleep do you mean?” Daisy asked sardonically. “I have a handle on it I think. It’s fine when I’m awake, I can keep it under control. But when I’m asleep … I could feel someone next to me, and all I could think was ‘Danger Danger Danger!”

Daisy sighed and looked across the field. “It wasn’t … it wasn’t always like this. For a while, after the Buried, it was like he was my - my responsibility? Like, I should protect him. Like family. And after - now - it just feels like everything is a danger. I don’t even know if I can get back to that.”

Martin shrugged, “I mean, you did it once. I know - I know it was hard but you were doing it.” 

“You too though right?” At Martin’s confused look, she continued, “You’re … getting better?”

Martin gave this some thought. He could spend time around people now. He didn’t always go silent after a nightmare anymore. It was scant progress, but it had only been a short while. “I - think so. I’m getting there.” 

Daisy shoved her hands deep into her borrowed jacket, “We’re getting there,” she said, nodding. “We’ll get there.”

“So, much as I love wearing Martin’s sweatpants,” Daisy said gesturing to her pants, “I only have one bra.” 

“Oh, yeah, you need a toothbrush and stuff too right?” Martin asked from the couch. 

“Yeah, didn’t exactly have time to grab my go bag while I was … hunting.”

“You could call Basira while we’re in town too,” Jon suggested. 

Daisy looked down at her bare feet “No. Not yet.” 

“Oh. Alright.” 

That afternoon Jon, Martin, and Daisy packed into the car and headed into the nearby village. Daisy picked up some t-shirts, jeans, sleep pants, and other necessities, while Jon and Martin picked up groceries for the week. 

“Let’s go take a look at that bookstore you were talking about. I’ll need something to do with all this suddenly free time,” said Daisy as they walked out of the little grocery store. They stowed their bags in the car before meandering down the street. 

The little bookstore was the same as always, a display of greeting cards from some local artist at the front desk the only thing that had changed. Even Bridgett the owner was sitting in the exact same position, albeit reading a different book. Daisy gravitated immediately to the selection of yellowing mystery novels, and Jon followed Martin to the YA section. 

“How was your walk?” 

“It was good,” said Martin, still perusing the shelf, “How’s your shoulder?” 

Jon reached up to touch where a sensible v-neck covered his bandages. He had forgotten about it, but as he touched it he winced slightly at a twinge. “It’s fine. It’ll heal. Thank you. For - for patching me up. It would have been quite a bit more difficult if I had followed through and done it myself.” 

Martin blushed slightly, not taking his eyes off the shelf in front of him. “I’m not going to let you hurt yourself out of stubborn pride. God knows you don’t need to worry about that with me.”

Jon stared up at Martin. “Nonetheless. Thank you.” Martin gave a small smile and a glance at Jon before pulling down a hardback and flipping it open to read the synopsis. Jon wandered away to take a look at the DIY section, eventually pulling a book on knitting, and one on the development of video technology. Having finished much sooner than either Daisy or Martin, but not wanting to make them feel rushed, he brought his books to the front desk, where the woman put her book aside and looked through his stack appraisingly. 

“Planning on taking up a new hobby?” she asked, holding the book on knitting. 

“Pardon?” 

She held the book up with a wry smile. 

“Oh. No, just, idle interest I suppose.” 

“You might consider it. I’m told it does wonders for anxiety.” 

“I - I might consider it. I suppose I need something to do with my time.” 

“You might consider making something for your young man, I’m certain I’d appreciate it.” She said levelly. 

Jon made a quiet, choked sound. “He - he’s not my young man, he - he’s not anyone's!”

Bridgett gave Jon a long, skeptical look. “Perhaps you’re not his, but I can assure you he considers himself yours.” 

“That’s not - that’s none of your - that seems an overly familiar comment to a stranger!” 

Bridgett, unabashed, shrugged and said in a placating tone, “Perhaps I’ve read the situation wrong. Nonetheless, your … friend would appreciate your effort, I’m sure.” 

Jon, momentarily at a loss for words, was saved from responding when Martin re-appeared, Daisy close on his heels. Martin paid with Peter’s card and made idle chatter with Bridgett, who gave no indication of her conversation with Jon. 

The rest of the day passed pleasantly, each engrossed in their own books, when Daisy stretched and announced that she was heading to bed. 

“I think I’ll turn in too,” said Martin. Jon momentarily considered pretending to fall asleep on the couch before realizing that Martin would without a doubt move him, might try to take the couch afterwards, and that he would have to face the sleeping arrangements eventually. 

Jon nabbed pajamas from his bag, still in Daisy’s room, and changed in the washroom. He also brushed his teeth vigorously, horrified at the thought that he might disgust Martin with morning breath. When he made it back to Martin’s room, Jon found him sitting on the edge of the bed holding his pajamas, waiting for Jon’s return. 

“Which - which side would you like?” he asked, hesitatingly. 

“Oh. Um, it’s been long enough since I’ve slept with - shared a bed with someone that I don’t - I don’t have a preference?” 

“I’m - ah - I’m in the same boat actually. I’ll - I’ll go and change, and I’ll just take whichever side you don’t then?” 

Jon nodded, and Martin left the room. He crawled under the covers, acquired a pillow, and slid to the very edge of the bed. There. He wouldn’t inadvertently brush against Martin. Jon couldn’t quite tell where the line was, what Martin was comfortable with and what he wasn’t. The best thing to do seemed not to touch him at all. And if they never touched, Martin would never have to see Jon’s failings, wouldn’t see how badly he wanted to be held, or how little he knew how to ask for it. His hands always seemed to shake when he reached out to someone, hesitancy and longing mixing together into frozen terror. 

When Martin returned, smelling strongly of mint, he slid into the bed beside Jon, leaving a vast gulf between them. After reaching out to turn off the light on the bedside table, Martin murmured, “Sleep well.” 

Jon waited until he was almost certain that Martin was asleep before breathing out “You too.”

Martin awoke slowly, to the sound of his own name being repeated again and again as though from a great distance, getting closer and closer until he threw off the last clinging fog of sleep. 

“Wha’z hp’n?” he slurred. He opened his eyes to Jon leaning over him, looking frantic. 

“Martin? You were gone, I could see through you!”

Martin held up a very non-transparent hand. “Jon. What?”

“I - I woke up and looked over and I could see the dresser through you, like you were back - back in the Lonely.” 

“Oh …” Martin’s hand dropped to his side. “Sorry to have worried you.” A laugh burst out of Jon with a hysterical edge. “No, it’s - it’s fine Jon, I swear. I didn’t realize I was going, you know, see-through, obviously. But it’s - it’s fine, I swear.” He reached out and placed his hand on the back of Jon’s, who responded by turning his hand around and gripping Martin’s with both of his own. 

After waiting for Jon’s breathing to slow, Martin suggested getting up to make tea. Jon followed him closely even as he started preparing tea, responding in kind to every movement that Martin made as though afraid that if he were more than a foot away Martin might disappear again. 

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Jon said quietly when they had both settled on the couch. 

“Mmm. Don’t worry about it, it was a nightmare anyways,” Martin said, shrugging. “In fact, I give you blanket permission to wake me if I start disappearing again.”

Jon smiled with an expression that on anyone else Martin might have said was shy. “Thank you,” he said, barely above a whisper. 

Martin pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and grabbed a book off the steamer trunk. 

After a few minutes Jon touched the edge of Martin’s blanket and said “Mind - mind if we share?” 

When Martin looked up in surprise, Jon said “It’s chilly out. Conservation of heat. We don’t - we don’t have to -” Martin interrupted by lifting the edge of the blanket, an obvious invitation. Jon grabbed his own book and tucked himself in next to Martin. After some time, Martin noticed that Jon’s book was slipping out of his hands, and his head was resting on Martin’s shoulder. 

When he was confident that Jon wouldn’t be woken by his movement, he gently took the book out of Jon’s hand before it could fall to the floor, and nudged his head back a touch so he wasn’t at risk of slipping off. His face was slack and comfortable in sleep, his body holding none of it’s usual tension and instead melting into Martin’s side. 

He appeared to be sleeping soundly. Good. Even away from the all consuming obsession of work, Jon still wasn’t sleeping as well as he should be. Martin should know, he was meeting Jon, nightmare ridden, every night after his own dreams woke him up. He carefully reached up to tuck a silvering strand of hair behind Jon’s ear. 

He had told Jon how he felt. After everything, it was the one thing he had left to let go. For a long while he hadn’t wanted to tell Jon at all. It was a crush, it was private, it would never be reciprocated, and Martin was wholly content for that to be it. Jon didn’t need to know, and Martin expected nothing of him. And then, one night when Martin had stayed late he had caught Jon dozing at his desk. Lit only by his yellowing desk lamp, clearly struggling to keep his eyes open over a folder likely older than he was, he and Jon had gotten to chatting. 

Perhaps because it was Jon’s third day of almost no sleep, he was more open than he might have been otherwise. Martin had mentioned his mother, saying that he wished he could connect with her, even once, that she would just see him. Jon had nodded, and Martin could see in his considering, understanding look, that he wasn’t alone in that desire. Jon had said quietly that he didn’t want that exactly. That he felt sure that anyone who saw him, truly saw him, as he was, would turn away. That he wouldn’t be wanted, that even if someone could love him for a while, that no one would love him for long. 

And Martin wanted, wanted so badly to tell him in that moment that he loved Jon. That he could see him, for all his faults, all his tics, all his oddities and strangeness and that he loved him anyways. That Jon was loved, deeply and wholey. 

At the time, he hadn’t wanted to burden Jon with that, or the expectation of reciprocation, even if Martin needed none. But when he was in the Lonely it had all seemed so far away. He had had time to sever all the rest of his ties to the world, to finish everything he needed to do before he faded away, and the last thing was to tell Jon. And then he could fade away. 

And now, here they were. Jon didn’t love him back. And as much as that hurt in the way that Jon had described, that ultimate rejection of being seen and known and not wanted, Martin was content. Jon knew he was loved, and worthy of love. 

Martin felt Jon move against him and realized that the night had passed while he had been thinking. 

“Morning. Sleep well?” 

“Yes,” said Jon sounding pleasantly surprised. 

“Good,” said Martin smiling, “Tea?” 

“Mmnmyeah,” said Jon stretching against Martin. 

“You know, ah, if you want tea, I’m going to have to get up.”

“Pfah, fine.” groaned Jon, taking very little of his weight off of Martin, who wiggled out from Jon and moved to the kitchen, still smiling. 

Eventually Daisy was roused by the clinking of dishware, and joined Jon and Martin where they were eating breakfast at the table. 

“Better wake-up than yesterday?” Martin asked as he pushed a tea over to Daisy, making note of how much sugar and cream she added. 

“Yeah, suppose so,” she said after a long sip, “didn’t sleep well, but no one got hurt.”

Jon snorted at that. “That’s our standard. No blood.” 

“No blood,” said Daisy evenly. 

Peering intently into her cup Daisy asked “How about you, sleep alright?” 

“Yes actually. A nightmare at the beginning of the night, but an uncommonly satisfying rest the rest of the night.” Jon shot Martin an inquiring look. 

“Oh, ah, nightmares, you know. But nothing - nothing out of the ordinary,” he said glancing down at his hands and smiling a touch. 

Daisy grunted, and Jon nodded, both conveying that they understood that particular nightly trial. 

The next few days passed much the same. Occasionally Daisy would meet them in the living room in the early hours of the morning, but she had quietly confided to Jon once that she felt it was safer to keep away after a nightmare for fear of lashing out again. Waking up was never an issue for Jon or Martin, one or the other would be woken by a nightmare and slip out of bed, to be followed shortly thereafter by whichever had been left behind, woken by their own nightmare. Usually, they would curl up at opposite ends of the couch to read or to watch the fire that Jon sometimes set in the grate. 

Jon had considered pushing again to take the couch. The actual sleeping together quickly became routine, thoughts fuzzed by either sleep or terror dulled any awkwardness that might have existed in wakefulness. However, the routine of getting ready for bed quickly became a kind of torture. There was a kind of terrible intimacy in seeing Martin choose his clothes for bed, or pull back the covers, that caused a kind of aching pain in Jon, made him wish deeply that he could reach out to Martin. That he could touch Martin’s hand or shoulder freely, knowing that it would be accepted and welcome, taken as the gesture of love it would be offered as. But it was too late. Martin had said loved. And Jon had never been physically affectionate. It had been too long, he hadn’t made the effort to reach out before now, and now he couldn’t be sure that it would be taken as welcome. 

But - well he would take what he could get now, selfish though it was. He justified it to himself, that he wasn’t taking anything that Martin wasn’t giving freely in his company. Martin didn’t seem to mind the company, and hadn't brought up sleeping arrangements either, despite both of them keeping carefully distant during the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, idk if i got Daisy right, I hope so but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also, I just love the comedic potential of Daisy showing up at her own safehouse to find people already there

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is pretty much completely written, but I'll be posting the chapters piecemeal rather than all at once so that I can be sure they're reviewed and edited when I put them up. I should be putting up a new chapter every couple of days (?)


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